An open letter to Donald Trump

Hey Donald!

Or should I call you President Trump? It certainly has a magnificent ring to it. Magnificent, obviously, in the way that a tornado heading for a redneck trailer park in, say, Texas, is magnificent. On second thoughts, president is not a powerful enough designation for a man of your caliber. In the parlance you’re comfortable with, president is a pussy word. A lot of terrible people have been and still are presidents. Nixon, Mugabe, that North Korean lunatic, Caligula, Zuma. The list is endless.

When you win the elections, your first executive action must be to declare martial law. Impose curfews. Roll out the tanks. And forget about the White House. That’s for gay liberals like George W Bush. You need to move into the Pentagon and get fitted with a uniform made of Kevlar and lion skins. Maybe get a bandolier of solid gold bullets to string across your chest. Since you’ve never been to war, you’ll have to make some medals of your own. The centrepiece could be an Iron Cross studded with rubies. Your new title could be something like Field Marshal or, even better, Führer. You will also need to declare yourself President for Life. The sooner the proletariat know where they stand the better it will be for you. In fact, don’t let them stand at all. That just encourages the swine. Keep them on their knees.

Like you, I, too, am something of a racist, sexist, homophobic misogynist. You’re a professional, though. I simply dabble. This is why you’re going to be the most powerful man in the world while I remain the most powerful man in my house. I live alone. Hopefully that will change once you bring me on board as your chief advisor.

One of the reasons I want to work for you is because you’re not an intellectual. You tweet while others read. You talk first and think later, if at all. Thinking is heavily overrated. Winners like you act purely on animal instinct. The only point of having an opposable thumb is to help you sign cheques and death warrants. And pull triggers.

Speaking of which, how are the boys? The last time I saw a picture of Donald Jr and Eric, the naughty little scamps were holding up bits they’d hacked off wild animals while hunting in my country. Does Eric still have the elephant tail? I bet he uses it to whip his boyfriend’s ass when they’re home alone. Fair play to him.

I would vote for you in a heartbeat because you are so full of brilliant ideas, among other things. Your notion that America should ban all Muslims was a stroke of genius. Are you really a genius or did you just have a stroke? I apologise. This is not the time for jokes. Not that there ever really is a time for jokes. Jokes are for losers.

I also applaud your stance on climate change. If the climate has a problem, then the climate must change, not us. We were here first, right? That’s the problem with the environment. It’s always doing something dramatic to get our attention. Worse than a needy child. When you’re in charge, I hope you punish it with loads of pollution.

Well done on winning New Hampshire, by the way. What was second prize? Vermont? In South Africa, we can’t be trusted to nominate a presidential candidate of our choice. This is done for us by others. We’re not entirely sure who they are. Some say they are extraterrestrials similar to the giant prawns in the nature documentary District 9, only less articulate.

You have much in common with our president. Well, just the one thing, really. You both lack any sense of shame. I think that’s because you both have a background in reality television, except Jacob Zuma who has no grasp on reality and doesn’t watch television. Not the news, anyway.

Big Don, you have this one in the bag. Your nearest rival in the Democratic camp is Hillary Clinton. As you know, she has strong and weak points. Her strong point is that she’s a woman. This is also her weak point. You have nothing to worry about there. Nor do you have to worry about Rubio and Cruz. Goddamn immigrants. Them rummed-up Cubans are worse than them mommy-jabbing Mexicans, I tell ya. Once you’re done bombing the shit out of ISIS, bomb the shit out of Cuba. Then turn it into a giant theme park. Like Disneyland but without all those homo cartoon characters. And have guns. Lots of guns.

Also, you need to replace your Supreme Court judges with the people who run your casinos. Justice is a gamble and you’re a five-card stud. With the law in your pocket, nothing can stop you. Scrap the states and make it one big America. Rework the pledge of allegiance. Replace the word “God” with “Donald Trump The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived”. And take out that nonsense about liberty for all. It just confuses people.

How was your Valentine’s Day, by the way? Did you give your daughter something special? I bet you did, you old rogue, you. Well done. The family that sleeps together stays together.

Looking forward to seeing you set some serious snares on the ol’ campaign trail. That ancient commie bastard Bernie Sanders is bound to stumble into one sooner or later.

And good luck for South Carolina. My advice is not to bother going after the darkie vote. They probably haven’t forgotten that slavery business even though god knows they’ve had long enough to get over it. No matter. The Evangelical Protestants are gonna lap you up. Sorry. That sounds a bit faggoty. You know what I mean.

Anyway. I’m your biggest fan. Can I have a million dollars?

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To Cde Blade Nzimande – Minister of Higher Education 

Here’s a letter I wrote to old pineapple face in 2009.

 

Dear Comrade Blade,

How dare these scoundrels accuse you of betraying the revolution simply because you ordered a car worth R1.1-million? This is peanuts when you compare it to other cars. That Swazi chap Mswati owns a Maybach that cost R3-million, which probably explains why you only ever see him in animal skins.

Even the Russians travel to the International Space Station in a vehicle worth $1.7-billion. That’s excluding petrol. Your fuel bill is probably higher than theirs, what with having to visit all the universities around Sandton every second month.

You need a powerful, reliable car because education is a dangerous business. Far more dangerous than defence. And while the defence minister is a lot better-looking than you are, it is you who controls the future of this great country.

Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the masses and Pablo Escobar said opium is the opium of the masses. Both men were right. As are you. There are those who would like to cause you harm and see you fail in your job. I don’t know who these people are or what their agenda is, but they are out there.

I have no idea if you are a communist or a socialist. Truth is, I lack the education to tell the difference. But you strike me as a decent and honourable man. A bit scary, certainly, but that goes with the ideology. If I had to bump into you on a moonless night in an isolated area near a deserted truck stop in the middle of nowhere, I would scream like a girl and run away. Perhaps that’s just a white thing.

The BMW 750i is a damn fine vehicle. It can outrun anything the police own, which is an important consideration if you have inveigled your way into a political system with the intention of subverting it from within. You are snuggling up to a nest of vipers and it is vital that you are able to get away quickly when they strike. And strike, they will.

To be honest, I am impressed that you chose a car. If I were you, I would have demanded a Rooivalk attack helicopter. Communism needs to spread quickly and effectively, like tuberculosis, and once in the air you could fire at convoys carrying plutocrats like Pravin Gordhan and all the others who make you look bad by driving around in second-hand Volkswagen Beetles bought off the Internet.

For a long time Gordhan went out of his way to make me look bad, too. Dear God, how many audits must an honest man go through before he turns bad?

I am very disappointed in Cosatu. They are meant to be comrades, people who know the difference between Das Kapital and Mein Kampf, and yet until just the other day they were howling for you to dump your chariot of the gods.

Patrick Craven, Cosatu’s pet goat, said you and other admirers of German technology should set an example to the struggling masses by driving what he called a “modest car”. What a thing to say. Does he not know that cars are like women? What man would choose a modest woman if he could have one coated in silver and gold who goes from naught to 100 in five seconds flat without even asking for a blood test?

The pet goat said you gave the impression that you “do not care about the message this opulence gives to the poor”. Message? Please. If the poor want messages they can go to the post office like the rest of us. The goat also said, “Spending so much money on vehicles is a slap in the face of the unemployed …”

What rubbish. I know unemployed people who are more than grateful to get a slap in the face. I asked one just the other day why he allowed me to slap him, and he said, “It’s better than nothing, comrade.” I had to slap him again for calling me comrade. I am not a comrade. I am an anarcho-syndicalist with Bolshevik leanings and a penchant for women’s underwear.

Interesting how, in just a few days, the idiot savant Julius Malema went from calling you an elitist Tassenberg junkie to defending your right to buy a BMW. Coming to his senses, he quoted the ministerial handjob – I beg your pardon – the ministerial handbook which entitles you to purchase a vehicle to the value of the GDP of Lesotho.

And don’t worry about what the Democratic Alliance says. Those hippies are still riding skateboards.

Your man in the back seat,

Ben Trovato

Trike-protest

An open letter to Walter “Fuck Cecil” Palmer

Dear Walter,

On behalf of specieists everywhere, I would like to congratulate you for taking down Cecil the lion in Zimbabwe the other day. What kind of name is Cecil, anyway? For that alone he deserved to die. Besides, he was getting way too big for his paws. Apparently he strutted about as if he owned the bush, posing for tourists and even letting children ride on his back. Thank god we have men like you to remind lions of their place – on your study wall.

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Elephant huggers keep referring to Cecil as a “much-loved lion”. This is ridiculous. You can’t love a lion. It says so in the Bible. Next thing you know, people will want to marry lions and have their babies and the world will be overrun with lion-people clawing at each other and fornicating out in the open.

I understand you were hunting with a bow and arrow. Well done. It’s my favourite weapon, too. Do you also live in a cave and wear skins? Do you club your wife over the head and drag her to your bed at night? Of course you do. You are, after all, a fine example of early Paleolithic man.

I see you chose a profession that involves hurting people. Of course you’d be a hunter in your spare time. You spend your days up to your elbows in blood and spittle, patients fighting you off, grabbing you by the throat, kicking you in the nuts. I would also want to kill things if I was a dentist. Things that don’t fight back, obviously.

Reports say you and your guides lured Cecil out of the Hwange National Park by strapping a dead animal to your vehicle. You should have just opened the back door. Cecil would have jumped right in and gone along for the ride. You could have turned around and shot him in the face, saving everyone a lot of time and effort.

Instead, you fired an arrow into Cecil and then spent the next two days looking for him. I’m surprised you didn’t find him sooner. He was, after all, wearing a GPS collar. Perhaps you thought all teenage African lions were wearing funky collars this year.

I hope you offered Cecil a blindfold before executing him. That would have been the Christian thing to do. Obviously you couldn’t offer him a final meal because he’d obviously choose you. But you would, I’m sure, at least have waited until he was dead before skinning him and chopping his head off.

You should mount his head on the wall of your dental practice in Minnesota. That would impress your lady patients and send a message to the guys that you are not a man to be trifled with. If anyone complains, lure them into the parking lot and shoot them full of novocaine. What you do with them after that is your business.

You have quite a record, my man. Apart from all the beasts you have slaughtered, you also landed a hefty fine in 2008 for lying to a federal agent about where you shot a black bear in Wisconsin. I bet you found him drunk and passed out behind a Walmart and couldn’t resist shooting him in the back just for fun.

A couple of years before the bear, you forked out a massive amount to one of your receptionists after she accused you of sexual harassment. What the hell is wrong with your country? Lying to the police, killing animals and fondling the staff are some of the things that make America great. They should have given you a goddamn Congressional Medal of Honour.

Anyway, Walter, old buddy. I’m off to murder an elephant for lunch. I generally use an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The explosion is quite spectacular and the animal hardly ever suffers. You should try it some time.

Murderously yours,

Brigadier Benjamin Bravado

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A letter to God

Dear God,

Sorry to bother you while you’re on holiday. I just felt like getting some stuff off my chest. I’m sure your in-box is stuffed with requests, complaints and demands going back hundreds of years. That’s why I’m slipping twenty bucks into the envelope. Get Jesus something nice. Tell him it was from me.

Here’s the thing. I’ve lost my cellphone charger and I was hoping you could … ha ha. Just kidding. If I’ve been bumped to the front of the line, I wouldn’t dare presume to waste your time with frivolities.

I’m in Cape Town at the moment. Love what you’ve done with the place. But the weather? What in your name were you thinking? Were you perhaps under the impression people living here would enjoy spending half the year wearing oilskins and thermal underwear? To give credit where it’s due, though, you did get it right in Durban. You couldn’t find a city with lovelier winters. Summers you apparently subcontracted out. But to Lucifer? Sure, he works fast, but he does have a bit too much of a thing for hot curries and humidity.

I’ve just driven through the Transkei and couldn’t help noticing that it could do with a bit of a touch-up. I’m not suggesting you do it yourself, obviously. If you still haven’t got around to sorting out the Middle East, you’re clearly running a bit behind schedule. Perhaps you could spare one of your lieutenants, though. What’s Noah up to these days? He was always good with his hands.

I hope I am not coming across as too much of a pain in the butt. I know what happens to rude, arrogant people. You curse them by making them very rich. What a burden to bear. Every night I pray for you not to send money my way and every day I find my prayers being answered.

Listen. There are a few people I need to mention. I have a list, but for now let me give you two names. Julius Malema and Steve Hofmeyr. I know we are all hypothetically your children, but you must have been on some kind of transcendental medication when you spawned those two pieces of work. I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but if you ever find yourself short a couple of sunbeams, do us all a favour.

By the way, about that earthquake on Tuesday. Were you trying to tell us something? There are easier ways, you know. Is your email down? Can’t you speak English? Or even Zulu? Everyone seems to have an opinion on the event and, given that one in three people in this country is mentally ill, it’s hard to know what to believe. Someone said you were punishing us because we abolished the death penalty and allow gambling, abortion and homosexuality. Given your reputation in the Bible, it may well be the case. I don’t care. I was in Cape Town and felt nothing. Most people in Cape Town feel nothing at the best of times. Well, most white people, anyway. But you’re not to blame for that. Or are you?

Do you have any clout with the Chinese or Vietnamese? Probably not. But on the off-chance that you do, could you get them to stop snorting our rhinos? I’m sure they’d rather have cocaine. Perhaps you could bring the street price down a bit. And please kill Facebook.

I know the Jews are your chosen people and you’ve done very well to fit a big country like America into a small pocket like Israel, but how does your boy feel about this? I would have thought he might still have hard feelings about that nasty business a couple of thousand years ago. Then again, he was always big on forgiveness. We have people like that here, too. A lot of parents forgive the men who kill their children and say it’s what you willed. They like to think they are emulating Jesus, but they aren’t really. They’re just not very bright.

Oh, before I forget. I have something for you – a token of thanks for all the times you’ve saved my ass. It’s a copy of my book Incognito – The Memoirs of Ben Trovato. I imagine you’re quite capable of purloining your own copy, but they’re selling out fast and the publishers in this country are reluctant to reprint once they have their pound of flesh. Meet me on the beach – being omnipresent you’re unlikely to go to the wrong one – at 3pm on Tuesday and I’ll give you a signed copy.

Yours truly,

Ben

 

 

 

 

A blast from the past

A Letter to Eric and Donald Trump Jnr

 

Hey boys!

Just wanted to congratulate you on your successful hunting trip to Zimbabwe. Our papers have been full of pictures of you guys holding up dead leopards in a pink mist of vapourised waterbuck. You’re real heroes in these parts, let me tell you. There has been a bit of criticism, but it’s coming mainly from white bunny-hugging do-gooders who think wild animals are there to be photographed instead of destroyed like the vermin they are. Bloody liberals.

I see you managed to bag three of the Big Five. Well done! But what stopped you from going for a full house? You got the buffalo, elephant and leopard, but missed the rhino and lion. And you call yourselves Trumps? Just kidding. I’m sure it’s not your fault. I bet the organisers of the hunt failed to tether them securely and they escaped before you could drive up and shoot them in the face.

Donald jnr, I particularly enjoyed the picture of you holding an elephant’s tail in one hand and a knife in the other. You can even see the legs of the elephant lying on the ground to prove that you got it off the animal and not from a curio shop. I bet you also cut off its trunk and poked it through your zipper and pretended you had a giant willy. I certainly would have.

I liked the shot of you guys posing next to a crocodile strung up from a tree. It reminded me of those old pictures from your Deep South. Now that the darkies are off-limits, croc-lynching could be the next big thing in Alabama. Wanna be partners? You gun ’em down, I string ’em up.

By the way, did you know that we also have a Small Five that are tremendous fun to kill? Meerkats are my best. If you’re quick, you can run up and kick them before they bolt for cover. Your brother, Eric, could have been waiting in an imaginary end zone to catch the flying ‘kat. Touchdown! American football, Africa style. What’s not to love?

Another of my favourites is the tortoise. Hunting tortoises is usually done when you have a hangover. I’m sure you had lots of those on your trip because the only way to survive Africa is to drink heavily while firing blindly into the night.

So what you do is set up your chair within shouting distance of a reliable servant – you don’t want to run out of Bloody Marys – and wait for a tortoise to come along. Put your foot on his back to stop him from getting away. This is where it gets tricky. He will have retracted himself, making a clean head shot impossible. Don’t shoot him in the shell if you plan on using him as a paper-weight. They shatter easily. Rather take a leaf out of your father’s book. Cut off his lights and water and starve him out.

You said the local villagers were overjoyed at getting the meat from your hunt. And why wouldn’t they be? Leopard carpaccio garnished with a sprinkling of civet cat and drizzled with crocodile jus doesn’t appear on the menu in the Matetsi area all that often.

When I read that the hunt organisers were called Hunting Legends, I thought they were offering legends like President Robert Mugabe. Now there’s a trophy you should have on your wall. But I suppose he would put up too much of a fight. Not that you lads aren’t bok for a fight. Far from it. A kudu is a hell of an adversary. You were just fortunate to come across one that was drugged. To be honest, a lot of the game in southern Africa is on drugs these days. They also lack any real work ethic and spend most of the day sleeping. Smelly freeloaders. No wonder we kill them.

You were also lucky to have survived shooting a tusker. Many elephants, particularly in Zimbabwe, are known to explode without warning and, even from a distance of 300 metres, you could easily have lost a leg. Or worse, had your hair messed up. Gel is hard to come by in the bush. Poachers probably stole his detonator. With elections coming up, they are worth more than ivory these days.

I’m not much of a hunter myself, but I think I know why you boys enjoy it. For a start, Eric is a girl’s name and he has a lot to prove. And your name is Donald jnr, and yet it is Eric who looks more like your father. No wonder you’re angry.

You said the money you paid for the hunt will be used to fund nature conservation in Zimbabwe. I presume by “fund nature conservation” you mean “arm Zanu-PF veterans”. That’s okay. We understand code in these parts. No names, no pack-drill. Whatever the hell that means.

My wife, Brenda, says you’re both latent homosexuals. As my Uncle Pervy used to say, “Better latent than never.” Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that I beat her soundly for her insolence.

I must say, though, Eric, you do look pretty damn sexy with that leopard draped over your shoulders. It brings out your eyes. And Donald jnr, seeing you straddling that dead buffalo makes doggie style seem positively Christian.

Y’all come back again!

An open letter to Kendall Jones – femme fatale of the African jungle

Dear Kendall,

May I call you Kendall? Ms Jones sounds so formal. Besides, I feel like I know you. Yes, I do mean ‘know’ in the biblical sense. You look eerily similar to a dozen or so women I’ve slept with. I’m a sucker for the vacuous, blonde, slutty look, which you have in spades.

You’ve been popping up all over Facebook lately. Well done! You must be tremendously excited by all the attention. Sure, most of it isn’t the kind of attention a normal person would want. But then again, you’re not normal. Far from it.

When I saw that photograph of you straddling a lion you’d just shot, I thought, “My god, what a magnificent animal.” The lion wasn’t a bad specimen, either. I like the way you’re tugging on his mane to make his mouth hang open. With his eyes shut, it’s almost as if he’s moaning and begging for more! You like that, don’t you? You’re such a tease.

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I’m sure you didn’t have to walk too far to shoot that big boy. With your looks, I expect the park rangers tranquilized him, then used pointy sticks to prod him towards you. There’s an art to this kind of hunting, you know. The real professionals can take down a darted lion at ten paces without spilling their drink. You wouldn’t have been drinking, though. You need both hands to wield a bow. It must be incredibly difficult to kill a lion with a weapon like that. I bet he looked like a porcupine by the time you’d finished with him.

I really love your profile picture on FB. There’s something about a blonde dressed from head to toe in camouflage that gets my blood racing.

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And if she happens to have her arms wrapped around a dead leopard, well, it’s into the cold shower for me.

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Your page says you were “born and raised in the great outdoors of the great State of Texas. What a shame. Were your parents too poor to afford a house? I’m not judging you. Some of my best friends were born in the bush. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, either. For all I know, you weren’t raised by people at all. That’s okay. All the really cool people were raised by animals. Except those raised by wombats. They don’t turn out so well. Have you ever shot a wombat? I believe they explode. Quite pretty at night.

Is it true that your 13th birthday present was the chance to blow a rhino’s brains out? What a lucky child you were! Most girls don’t get to kill their first rhino until they are well into their teens. Did they blindfold it for you? Oh, wait. It’s you who would have been wearing the blindfold. On the other hand, it was probably more of an execution than a hunt, so I’m sure someone with your compassion would have insisted that the rhino be blindfolded.

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There’s something poetic about it. While kids your age were playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, you were playing fire-the-bullet-into-the-rhino. That’s why you’re famous and they’re working at Mickey D’s, right?

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Well, as we say in South Africa, the only good rhino is a dead rhino. You’re doing us all a tremendous favor by ridding the bush of these unsightly vermin. Any animal that has a horn on its nose deserves to die. Silly bastards.

I also love the picture of you with the elephant. I can’t quite make out what you have in your hand. It looks like a javelin. Did you stab him to death? It’s the only language they understand.

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I hope he was asleep and that you didn’t risk your life. Someone as hot as you deserves to live a long and happy life. Elephants, on the other hand, are grey – a color that went out of fashion in 1884. Ivory, though, will always be fashionable. Those two enormous tusks will keep you in jewelry for a long time to come. Hey, imagine if you lost one of your perfect teeth, as impossible as that may seem. You could carve a new one and use that as an implant. How cool would that be?!?!? LOL

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Did you know that you can also use their feet as wastepaper bins or umbrella stands? All you have to do is hollow them out. Of course you know this. Why else would you shoot an elephant if not to decorate your ranch?

I can’t believe how many animals you have killed and you’re only 19! Imagine what you’re going to do in your late-twenties, when you’re strong enough to carry a bazooka or an RPG-7 anti-tank grenade launcher. The carnage will be spectacular!

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Is it true that the bunny-huggers are threatening to shoot you if you come back to Africa? I’d like to see them try. These hairy-legged losers think knives are for cutting up carrots instead of buffalo. Morons.

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You’ve tried to make these rabid left-wing loonies see reason by explaining that your hunting actually funds conservation and “helps feed African villagers”.

Truth is, I’m not very good at math or even logic, really, but if you say that killing an animal is the best way to ensure its survival, I won’t argue. With a face like yours, you could tell me that hippos love nothing more than a bullet between the eyes and I’d believe you.

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And if there’s one thing that African villagers want more than access to free broadband internet, it’s a crocodile carpaccio for starters, followed by fillet of wildebeest topped with monkey gland sauce. Real glands from real monkeys, obviously. Do you do monkeys? Crafty little buggers. You might want to try using a good ol’ American-made flamethrower. That way they come ready-cooked. There should be loads of cheap ex-Vietnam models floating around. Flamethrowers, not monkeys.

You probably don’t get much time to hang out with the Texas Tech University’s cheerleading squad any more, which is a bit of a pity. Perhaps you could combine the two. Drug a cheetah and when you do that leg action thing, you could kick him in the head. That would get a laugh from your fans, at least.

You say you’re hoping to host your own TV show next year? What a brilliant idea. I remember Jay Leno would bring animals onto his show. Instead of having a boring old expert talking about them, you could have people from the audience come up and shoot them in the face. It wouldn’t be gratuitous, obviously. That would be plain wrong. There would have to be prizes of some sort.

Anyway, babe. Good luck with the killing. Hope to see you out here again soon. You’d better hurry, though. The Mozambicans are poaching all our rhino and if you leave it too long there won’t be any left.

Say hi to Melissa Bachman. I’m sure you two are best of buddies. Do you have any pictures of the two of you in a hot tub? I’d sure like to see ‘em.

Anyway, darlin’. I gotta go. Tonight me and my buddies are lookin’ to bag us some German Shepherds. That’ll teach them fuckers to bark all night long.

Aim straight and keep your boots bloody.

Murderously yours,

Ben Trovato

 

Gissajob, Lenny!

Far-right leader’s payday loans firm

A WHITE supremacist suspected of carrying out a bombing campaign in Africa has been found by the Daily Star Sunday – running a payday loans firm in Cambridgeshire

By Sian Hewitt & John Ward/Published 18th August 2013
white, supremacy, racist, terror, black, pay, day, loans,Relaxing: Leonard Veenendaal enjoying his freedom

Leonard Veenendaal fled to the UK from South Africa in 1997 after breaking out of custody before his terror trial.

But now this newspaper can exclusively reveal Veenendaal is living in a sleepy market town with his wife and two children and running his own business.

But beneath the veneer of respectability lies an extreme past – Veenendaal was once the personal bodyguard and righthand man of the infamous racist leader Eugene Terreblanche.

He also led the Johannesburg branch of white-power group the Afrikaner Resistance Movement, which fought for a white-only state in South Africa during apartheid.

The right-wing activist was believed to be involved in a terror attack in 1989 in which a United Nations building in Namibia was blown up, killing a black security guard.

Veenendaal armed with an AK-47Veenendaal armed with an AK-47

“One shocking snap shows a black man lying dead in a trench while others show Veenendaal in his uniform holding guns”

But he and others escaped from custody just before their trial by overpowering two police officers, one of whom was shot and killed.

He fled to South Africa where he was arrested a year later as one of nine white extremists thought to be behind a series of bombings aimed at anti-apartheid targets including newspaper offices, bus terminals and a synagogue.

In 1997 he came to the UK where he has lived ever since, despite international arrest warrants being issued against him. His company Onesys Financial Limited is now offering payday loans with a whopping interest rate of 2,330%.

The firm claims online it draws on “17 years of experience” and lists its values as honesty and “striving to do our very best” for customers. The business also offers unsecured personal loans and debt collection – boasting a “proven success rate” at making people pay back money owed.

Last week Veenendaal refused to talk to our reporter about his shady past when we approached him in the industrial yard in Wisbech where he runs his business.

He also has a family website on which he says he, his wife Tracy and sons Darryl and De la Rey are “fiercely proud” of their “rich historical and cultural background”.

Both sons are promising rugby stars – Darryl plays for Bedford Blues in England’s Championship and De La Rey has played for England Counties under-20s.

The site details the family’s achievements, as well as hundreds of photos – with one section even showing pictures of Veenendaal’s time in South Africa’s military, fighting in the “Bush War” in Namibia and Angola.

One shocking snap shows a black man lying dead in a trench while others show Veenendaal in his uniform holding guns.

In one, a black man is tied up and blindfolded as he is interrogated and another shows a military truck with a corpse tied to the top of the wheel rim.

Before setting up his payday loans business Veenendaal worked for Cambridgeshire County Council in the education and ICT department.

A spokesman confirmed the council knew about the allegations against him but said: “A Criminal Records Bureau check was carried out and there was no reason not to employ him.”

 

MEANWHILE, here’s a letter I wrote to good ol’ Lenny’s former employer five years ago:

 

To: Cambridgeshire Education ICT Service                                               7 July 2008

42 West Street
Cambridgeshire
PE29 2HJ

United Kingdom

 

Dear Sir,

On behalf of all right-thinking South Africans, allow me to congratulate you on your decision to continue employing one of our Boer heroes, Leonard Veenendaal, in the face of mounting calls from limp-wristed liberals for him to be prosecuted for murder.

As you are undoubtedly aware, your technical services manager fled South Africa in 1997 after being persecuted by the Black government for simply having done his duty in trying to prevent Namibia from falling into the hands of the communists in 1989. It takes a special kind of man to bomb a United Nations office and then shoot his way out of police custody. It’s a shame that a security guard and a policeman had to die, but at least neither of them was white.

Leonard might have told you that his former boss, a lovely man by the name of Eugene Terreblanche, is busy getting the old group together again. Eugene used to call Lenny “my little fanatic” and I should warn you that the AWB will probably try to poach him from you. Reliable bodyguards are so hard to find these days.

Friends in the White Power movement tell me that Leonard and his wife, Tracy, and their two sons, Darryl and De La Rey, are living in a charming house in Wisbech where Lenny coaches the local school rugby team and enjoys attending the odd National Front rally on weekends. Good for him! After all he has been through, he deserves his place in the sun. Not that Wisbech gets much.

I have a favour to ask. At the moment, there are 21 equally patriotic South Africans facing a bunch of trumped up charges in Pretoria. They belong to a group called the Boeremag that used to meet twice a week for social activities such as brandy tasting, darts and bomb-making competitions. When the trial is finished, they will need jobs and I was hoping that you would be able to take them on board. You won’t regret it, I promise. Their English might not be the best, but these guys will kill for you.

Please tell Leonard not to worry about a thing. The Namibians won’t be trying to extradite him any time soon because the original docket is in Afrikaans and after 19 years prosecutors still haven’t been able to find anyone to translate it. Besides, by granting Leonard residency in Britain, the Home Office has shown that it will not tolerate discrimination against intolerant people who discriminate. The Labour Party is nothing if not highly principled.

I trust you will continue doing all you can to keep the darkies out of Cambridgeshire’s education system. Men like Leonard are all that stand between us and a complete breakdown of civilisation. I need not remind you that if Cecil John Rhodes had been black, we would all be speaking Swahili today.

Yours truly,

Ben Trovato (Imperial Lizard)

 

 

 

From the canned hunting archives …

VANDERBIJLPARK, 15 June 2009 — It is the end of the road for South Africa’s 123 lion breeders and 3 000 canned lions.

This follows a verdict in the Free State High Court in Bloemfontein that these semi-tame animals may be hunted only 24 months after being set free from their breeding cages.

Judge Ian van der Merwe concurred with the government that bio-diversity must be protected and that the breeding of lions in captivity with the sole purpose of canned hunting does not aid their protection.

The lion breeders’ request that the period of 24 months in the regulations be changed to “a few days” was dismissed with costs.

Albi Modise, a spokesman for the Water Affairs and Environment Department, said the government welcomes the verdict.

“This means that the reprehensible practice of canned hunting has most certainly come to an end.”

 

 

Letter to Carel van Heerden – Chairman of the South African Predator Breeders’ Association

 

Dear Carel,

When I heard that the Free State High Court had rejected your efforts to prevent this liberal touchy-feely rabbit-fondling government from interfering in canned lion hunting, I was devastated. I know what you meant when you said the ruling by Judge Ian van der Merwe left you feeling as if someone had kicked you in the stomach. I had the same feeling.

I was so angry when I read about the court’s decision that I inadvertently over-medicated and woke up to find Brenda actually kicking me in the stomach and demanding that I throw away all the empty bottles. Is that what happened to you? Maybe we should introduce canned wife hunting.

What gets me is that the ruling was made by one of our own. I never thought I would come across a van der Merwe who is against hunting. In Bloemfontein, nogal. What is this country coming to? I noticed that the judge’s first name is Ian. He must have an English mother. That’s where the trouble starts, every time. As soon as these halflings grow up, they cross over to the dark side.

Look at Marthinus van Schalkwyk. He started this nonsense with his new rules about hunting predators. Before he crossed over to the darkie’s side, he would shoot anything that moved. Or was that Magnus Malan? Anyway, the point is that you were absolutely right to go to court to stop him. It’s just a pity that you got a judge who has never felt the pleasure of sitting on a deck chair drinking nicely chilled brandy and coke and picking off lions whenever they came up to the fence.

In his blatantly pro-predator judgement, van der Merwe said it was “abhorrent and repulsive” to hunt lions bred and raised in captivity. Is he not aware of the damage these animals can do? I have heard of hunters driving into enclosures in brand new 4x4s and having lions come up and claw the bodywork. It doesn’t matter that they only wanted to be scratched behind the ears. Purple metallic paint is not cheap these days.

As you know, foreign hunters will pay more than R170 000 to bag a big male who would otherwise spend his time lolling about under a tree licking his balls and generally being the mane ou. Pride comes before a fall. Or, in this case, a bullet to the head.

I was pleased to see that lionesses go for only R10 000. At least you guys don’t discriminate when it comes to devaluing the worth of females, regardless of their species.

Using unpatriotic words like “biodiversity”, the judge said that breeders were only interested in making money. What absolute nonsense. These people love lions with a passion. Why else would they have lion skins on their floors, lion heads on their walls, lion paw backscratchers, lion tail whips and lion teeth jewellery? These are the same people who drank Lion lager before the government banned that, too.

Until recently, we could proudly call ourselves one of the world’s canned lion hunting capitals. More than a thousand of these devil-cats were gunned down every year. We could have doubled this number if we had packed them a bit tighter in the cages. But because we are not cruel, we left them with enough room to turn around and even lie down if they kept their legs folded in.

If the government bans canned lion hunting, then they must also ban battery chicken farming. The only difference between the two is that there is less of a demand for trophy hunting in the chicken industry because most taxidermists are unable to work with such small heads.

Now that the bloodless coup is over, what is going to happen to the country’s 120 lion breeders? These people have big meat-eating families to feed. Have you thought about canned dog hunting? There is no law that says you can’t breed Great Danes or Irish Wolfhounds or any other dog with leonine qualities. These hounds would be a joy to hunt because you would only have to wait for one to come up and sniff your crotch before shooting it in the head. You needn’t even leave the braai.

You said that about four thousand captive lions had now lost their economic value and might have to be put down. Don’t go soft on us, Carel. You are a hunter. Get the men together, take the cats down to the Union Buildings and release them in the parking lot at 5pm. We may as well have the last laugh.

Yours, knee-deep in blood and gore.

Ben Trovato

An open letter to Dr Wouter Basson

Dear Wouter,

I thought you might need a few words of support while trying to convince the Health Professions Council that you are not some depraved monster who isn’t fit to slice people open and fiddle with their vital organs while they’re unconscious. You might be a dinosaur in a political sense, but it’s not as if you escaped from Thoracic Park and rampaged like a giant lizard through our cities.

And so what if the media dubbed you “Dr Death”? My own family calls me Dr Drunkenstein. These are terms of endearment and we should be grateful for them.

You have come a long way since slipping the hook on charges of murder, fraud and a range of drug-related offences so impressive that you would almost certainly be guaranteed of a top position in the 28s should you ever decide to move to the Cape Flats.

I cannot understand why, as former head of the old National Party government’s chemical and biological warfare programme, you have still not been given the recognition you so clearly deserve. As you once told the committee, your work was “for the benefit of mankind”. Instead of trying to nail you for unethical conduct, they should be nominating you for a Nobel Prize. I shall write to the Norwegians at once demanding that they at least give you a lifetime achievement award.

Mankind has indeed benefitted from your work. Who among us can forget dancing the night away after popping a couple of Basson’s Brownies at one of the secret raves that made the 1980s such a fun decade? Pure ecstasy, I tell you. Ridiculously pure.

As you told the committee, the ’80s were “crazy years … people did things. Doctors planted bombs”. Right on, bro. You tell ’em. I got so crazy in the ’80s that I planted marijuana. Turned out to be poison ivy. Smoked it anyway. Forgot I had a job. Went colour blind. Misplaced my girlfriend. Damn fine stuff.

You also told the committee that you never intended to hurt anyone and simply wanted to make a difference. That’s the whole point of germ warfare, isn’t it? Making a difference. Why can’t the council see this?

There was a report in the papers about you having been involved in some sort of altruistic reach-for-a-dream scheme for Swapo prisoners. If I remember correctly, they wanted to experience the joys of sky-diving. They were given fabulous drugs and dropped over the Atlantic. It’s not your fault the army couldn’t afford parachutes.

Your critics also claim you manufactured Mandrax and had it distributed among the anti-apartheid community. If that’s true, I think it was a very noble gesture. Lefties in those days could barely afford a toasted sandwich, let alone a bagful of quality smokable items. Back then, there was nothing quite like a white pipe to lift your spirits and dispel those state of emergency blues.

And how about that drug-laced teargas? I always thought the protestors were doubled over in pain. Turns out they were laughing. What a hoot! Wish I’d been sprayed with some of that stuff. Oh, well. That’s the price I paid for supporting apartheid.

Ironic, isn’t it, that you were fired by FW de Klerk and rehired by Nelson Mandela. Apparently the ANC didn’t want you selling your secrets to the Libyans. Or worse, the Americans. You know who needs you now? The Iranians, that’s who. I can hear President Hassan Rouhani shouting, “Unleash Wouter Basson!” Nobody is going to care about oppressing the Palestinians if there’s LSD in their water supply.

Word on the street is that you haven’t dabbled in chemicals for years, which is more than I can say for most of the people I know. Are you happy as a heart surgeon? I don’t think it’s for me. Cardiology is fine as a hobby but it’s not really a man’s job, is it. You need slender, girly fingers to be able to root around in a person’s chest cavity. And it’s not like they can fight back, either. I have big, powerful hands that can reach down a man’s throat and rip out his heart in one fluid movement, even when I am on pethidine. Especially when I am on pethidine.

Are you still operating behind the Boerewors Curtain? Watch your back, my friend. Durbanville isn’t what it used to be. The English-speakers are moving in under cover of darkness and there have been recent sightings of people who aren’t white.

Pathologically yours,

Dr Benzedrine Trovato

PS. If things turn nasty at your hearing, stand up and say to the committee: “I will give you my scalpel when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.” It worked for Charlton Heston and it can work for you.

An Open Letter To Nelson Mandela

Dear Madiba,

You probably won’t get this because the mail doesn’t always get through to the intensive care unit at the Pretoria Medi-Clinic Heart Hospital, but I thought I’d write to you anyway.

I have a feeling that nobody tells you anything these days, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You wouldn’t want to be on Facebook or have a Twitter account. It would make you angrier than Winnie ever did.

You are causing quite a commotion, I can tell you. I don’t recall ever seeing every major television network in the world running this many lead stories about an old man lying in a hospital bed. You’d laugh. I’m sure you would.

Dozens of them are out there right now, sleeping rough on the cold streets of Jozi, waiting for you to kick the bucket. Some people are calling them vultures. They aren’t, really. They just want to be there when you do decide to shuffle off this mortal coil.  Knowing Jacob Zuma’s impish sense of humour, he will hold a press conference in Pretoria when he gets the call. What fun it would be to see all those outside broadcast vans scrambling for the N1. I think the Americans will get there first. As you know, they can be pretty pushy when it comes to getting what they want. After all, it was George Herbert Walker Bush who got you out of jail, not FW de Klerk. Am I right?

It’s costing the international media tens of thousands of dollars a day to maintain a presence outside your hospital. Live feeds don’t come cheap these days. They are not bad people. But you are costing them money. And there are other stories to be covered. They are hungry, thirsty, dirty and tired. Most of them, dare I say, would appreciate it tremendously if you popped off sooner rather than later.

I would like to see you make enough of a recovery to flirt with a nurse, shout at a doctor, condemn the ANC for tolerating incompetence and fostering corruption, and send the journalists sloping back to their lairs thinking it’s another false alarm. Then, quite unexpectedly, you go off to heaven to organise an armed uprising against the tyranny of God.

A reporter for the Sophiatown Sun, lost and drunk, staggers past the hospital and lands the scoop of the century. That’s the kind of poetry this country needs right now.

I’m not sure if you know this, but you do have your critics. In medieval times, they would have been burnt at the stake. However, few of us can afford steak these days. I’m sorry. This is no time for jokes.

Your critics, most of whom have good jobs and live in the suburbs, say that you were too soft on the white people. That instead of national reconciliation, there should have been a policy of national retribution. I don’t always know if they’re proposing a pound of flesh or a pound of Sterling.

Looking back, you might perhaps have done more to encourage the rich to give to the poor. Thabo Mbeki confused the rich with his sophisticated pipe-smoking ways and post-prandial, neo-Marxist, watch-out-for-the-tokoloshe talk. Then Jacob Zuma came along and scared the rich right out of the country.

I see some of your family has come to visit you. That’s lovely. Did you see Zaziwe Dlamini-Manaway and Swati Dlamini? Security probably blocked them because they had a bigger television crew than CNN. Imagine trying to get into the hospital by claiming that you have your own TV show called Being Mandela, but your ID says Dlamini-whatwhat.

Most of your judgment calls were spot on. Becoming a lawyer, for instance. That was a brilliant idea. The Boers would never have dared arrest a lawyer. Oh, wait.

But having been acquitted at Rivonia, you should have gone to ground. What the hell were you doing on the R103? You should have been on the N2. It’s quicker and the filth only put up roadblocks over Easter.

You know what else you should have done? You should have started a fitness class. Did you ever watch one of Jane Fonda’s workout videos? That would have been in 1982, the same year you were transferred from Robben Island to Pollsmoor Prison.

If you had come out of jail and launched a health and lifestyle video, you would be a rich man today. Oh, right. You are a rich man. Well, you were until your lawyers, family, friends and enemies started tearing each other apart to get a slice of that big ol’ Madiba pie.

All I’m saying is that you’re still alive at 94, whereas a lot of people who didn’t spend 20 years on an island aren’t. Sure, it wasn’t exactly Humming Bird Cay in the Bahamas, but you got lots of fresh air, a fair bit of exercise in the limestone quarry, early nights, no alcohol and no women. I think I would rather die young. But that’s just me.

I won’t tell you about the things that are going on in the name of the liberation struggle because you’d probably have a heart attack and then my letter to you would be redundant. I would have wasted a couple of hours and you’d feel that you would have wasted your entire life.

Your slapping PW Botha’s hand aside in 1985 and saying, “With all due respect, Meneer Botha, if you want to free me, you have to free all of us, or you can go fuck yourself” resonated with the nation. It taught us the principle of all for one and one for all. Now it’s just a free for all. But that’s not your problem. Nor is it your fault. The white pigs emigrated and left the trough wide open for the black pigs. We are human animals. It’s our nature.

I don’t believe you stopped a genocidal bloodbath. But if you did, thank you for that. What you did do, though, was lift the name South Africa out of the rotten stinking fetid swamp that the National Party had dragged it into. You gave our country a name that we – oppressed and oppressors – could at last be proud of.

So it’s midnight on June 13th, 2013. I raise my glass to you, Madiba.

Hamba kahle.